Creed went to the chest and peered inside. He didn’t care what Quution had. Creed was strapping it on and going in search of Melody. He grabbed the machete first. It was encased in a leather holder that he hooked over his neck and shoulder.
“Did you smuggle bullets for the Beretta?”
“If that’s what you call the gun, then there should be an extra clip.”
Creed lifted the weapon belt the gun was holstered in. As he strapped it around his waist and adjusted the fit, he inspected the material. “Is this from a cop?”
“A very pissed-off one, yes. But it’s been ten years, I’m sure he’s replaced them by now. You’ll find cuffs and a flashlight also.”
“I won’t need cuffs. I’m going to kill Malachim.”
“You’re going to need help with that. I’ve summoned Stryke.”
Creed spun on his heel. “I’m not waiting.”
“Creed.” The solemnity in Quution’s voice stopped him. “I urge you to wait. In your realm, vampires and shifters dominate. Down here, you’re barely more than human to a beast like Malachim.”
“I can hold my own.”
“I could fry you in two seconds,” Quution said flatly. “Your leader has faced Malachim before, but he was in a host. Your friends faced off with Rancor, after copious containment spells failed. And if I remember the story correctly, it was Fyra who toasted him. Not a vampire.”
Creed’s body twitched to stomp away. His internal compass declared Melody was too far from him. Paired with knowing she was in grave danger, he almost sprinted away.
But Quution was correct. He wasn’t enough.
Creed scowled at the floor. An inkling of understanding for Melody’s life crept into his thoughts. He wasn’t enough to save her. She’d had to suffer her whole life feeling inadequate, and now she had to suffer because he wasn’t enough. She’d spent her energy trying to save him and was paying for it. He wanted to rage with the frustration. No wonder Melody had epically lost her temper whenever those old feelings were triggered.
Fine. He’d have to abide by being the weaker species in the realm. “When the hell is Stryke going to get here,” he growled.
“I’m already here. And I brought friends.”
Creed whipped his head around and a smile formed. Stryke stood in Quution’s doorway with Bishop and Fyra.
His friends. Old and new. His family—and Melody’s. No, he wasn’t enough to fight alone in the underworld, but he was enough for Melody, her alter ego Meladonna, and any other persona she might adopt. And he’d spend the rest of their lives proving it.
Chapter Seventeen
Melody’s skull throbbed. When she’d first learned that she had horns, she’d been devastated. Then she’d learned to live with them, use them, even appreciate them and their terrifying poison. They were one of her few defenses, and Malachim had just broken them off.
Would they grow back?
She missed them, and not just to stop the pain. Once the idea of accepting Hypna’s powers had set in, she’d taken comfort in having them. They were the prettiest shade of purple, like a drop of cream had been mixed with a batch of eggplant-colored paint. Ironically, a color her mom would’ve approved of.
As she lay waiting to die, shackled at the wrists and ankles, she gained possible insight into her mom’s death. Melody had been in the dark, clueless to the dire situation her mom had been in. She’d been busy with school and despite the tension and resentment between them, Melody would’ve quit work in a heartbeat to be by her side. It was her mother.
Instead, Mom had let her go about life like nothing was wrong. Was it her aunt who’d been a callous bitch? But then, she’d just kept a dark secret from her niece and buried her sister.
If Creed had survived, she’d never want him to know her torment. The guilt would destroy him. He’d already let the death of a young woman affect his decisions regarding what he did for a living—in a good way—and who he should and shouldn’t fall for—in a not so good way.
If Creed had died, well… Melody squeezed her eyes shut, straining not to make a sound. Each time they thought she was coming around, Malachim cuffed her on the head to knock her out. Passed out equaled no plant control. Neither could she use her abilities while in excruciating pain.
Her vision had been too blurred to determine the other being in the cave. She hadn’t learned all the names. The guttural voice was familiar—one of the purebreds.
Malachim solved the mystery. “Barkle, punch her again. I can smell her coming to.”
“I don’t work for you,” the male replied with a snarl.
Hope rose. If they couldn’t work together without arguing, she might have a chance. Sneak away during one of their arguments. Turn them against each other. Delay them until any who cared to help her happened along. She’d use any advantage.
“And if we bicker long enough, we’ll end up working for one of the peons we should be eating rather than commanding with. Cuff her damn head while I find the spell we need.”
The scraping grew closer. She schooled her features to remain still, but she couldn’t relax. Anticipating another brain-scrambling punch made her twitchy, but she needed time to think, to learn as much as she could before lights out.
The stench of the second demon drew closer. She forced herself not to wrinkle her nose. It was like urine and feces threw a party with a thousand flies, like the camp bathrooms she’d hated using at plumbingless campgrounds.
Where was her anger?
The way she’d disappointed her parents?
Nope. She’d move beyond that. They were only human, after all.
What about her fury with Creed?
Gone. Her over the top rage had deflated, leaving depression behind. She’d spoken her mind, he laid out his thoughts and fears, and she could no longer fault him for being honest. And, ultimately, none of it mattered because she didn’t know if he was alive or not. Could Vita have lied? Well, duh, but did she have to?
Melody frowned. Wait a minute—
“She moved,” Barkle grunted, his voice much too close. Shivers galloped up her spine. “I’m going to have fun with her first.”
Dammit, she was so close to figuring this out. Her eyelids flew up and she glared at him. “Will you quit interrupting? I’m trying to think.”
Barkle sneered around his tusks, balling a fist as round as her head. She scanned around her while she was working out a way to free herself.
Disgust soured her stomach. She was surrounded by mountains of bones, none of them complete enough to make a full skeleton. Most of them were so terribly small. She hadn’t met all the creatures down here, but these weren’t mature bones. This chamber was a slaughterhouse for the young.
What did they do with them, and why leave the bones?
“Hit. Her.” Malachim’s order was full of irritation. His hairy back was to her as he stood at an altar at the far end of the room. Her slab of rock was in the middle. When she inhaled past Barkle’s stench, an undercurrent of misery, torture, and utter despair ran through the room.
She had to get away. Now.
My bond, my bond. Where’s my bond?
She searched inside of her. Did she feel differently? Her link with Creed was fairly new and a demon-vampire bond was unusual, but other than her aches and pains and mental turmoil, she didn’t feel any differently than yesterday.
Barkle towered over her, his seedy gaze raking her body. “I bet her power will be as delectable as the rest of her.”
Her hands were secured, but she blew him an air kiss. “Touch me and I’ll cut your junk off faster than you can blink.” As long as he wasn’t immune to her vines like Malachim.
Barkle’s upper lip lifted. Was that a smile? “I might like it.”
She concentrated on her apartment. A heartbeat of weightlessness greeted her efforts.
He was alive! Vita, you lying, very dead bitch.
The moment ended with her still very much secured to the underworld.
S
he sucked in a breath, her wide gaze finding Malachim grinning at her.
“She thinks to leave us,” he said to Barkle.
Horror choked her. Malachim was a much more serious threat than any of them thought. He was immune to her powers, and crafty. Add in his strength, and she was going to die of panic before either of them did anything.
Barkle cranked his fist back. No wonder she’d passed out for so long. She couldn’t do it again, not knowing what they were doing to her or those she loved.
She tensed, her hands fisted. Roots sprouted from the alarm. Panic made her thoughts churn. Couldn’t escape. Couldn’t escape.
But her roots were still at her command. No, they might not work on Malachim, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t test their limits. And then there was Barkle.
She concentrated. He narrowed his muddy eyes on her and propelled his fist toward her.
Whipping her face to the side with a grimace, she prepared for a shattered cheekbone. The whoosh of breeze from his blow caressed her cheek as her vines caught him around the knees and yanked him away from her.
He went down with a crash. Melody craned her neck to see, feeding more power into the plants. They crawled over him, dug into his skin, into his ears. His shout of surprise and outrage turned into a blood-curdling shriek.
Malachim turned from a mantel that held a large ancient book and spit on Barkle. “That’s what you get for not listening to me.”
The shriek was cut off. Yes! She bagged another.
Her triumphant gaze dipped to Barkle. Her panic returned.
Barkle glared at Malachim as he ripped withered vines off of him. He was steaming. Struggling to stand, beads of blood dripped off him from the injuries. “She’ll not get a second chance.”
Smoke billowed out of his mouth as he spoke. Was he like Fyra? Then he could raze her ability until only ash remained.
Malachim continued his search for the spell and Barkle swaggered toward her, like he smelled her rising terror and it intoxicated him. “Humans were always a tasty treat. Not as tender as little babies, but I’ll have to make do.”
Tears welled. They were little babies. And if they were sacrificed in this room, then the desperate emotions of their mothers were what she smelled. This chamber was the reason she’d been able to survive. Those powerless against demons like Malachim and Barkle lived in a dark place with no hope. They were nothing but objects the pureblooded demons could exploit.
Melody didn’t care what she had to do to be worthy, but she’d dedicate her life to making a difference down here.
If she survived.
Barkle cocked his fist back. She hooked it with a vine and jerked his arm down. Steam released from his skin, her vine withered. Repeat.
“I can do this all day.” She couldn’t do this for much longer.
He scowled, but his ugly smile returned.
“Hold,” Malachim ordered. Barkle rolled his eyes, but dropped his fist. “I found it. This will be more enjoyable with her awake. Once I have her power, you can have what’s left of her body.”
The farther Barkle’s grin spread, the more her stomach heaved. She’d likely not survive, but the idea that her remains would be his toy disturbed her.
Malachim hoisted the book that was half the size of her and crossed to her.
She was flanked by the two demons. It was all or nothing now.
Since Malachim claimed immunity and she didn’t want to waste a precious opportunity to test it, she didn’t target him.
Calling up smaller roots from the floor, she went for distraction. A large root resembling a lasso emerged from the ceiling. She fueled it with her concentration. When the length was adequate, she whipped it out.
It slapped one side of the book up. She struck again until it toppled out of Malachim’s fumbling grip.
Barkle smacked her.
Her head whipped to the side and bounced against the slab. The jagged ends of her savaged horns took the brunt of the impact, but it jarred her brain. She cried out. Tears streamed down the sides of her face. They were from fear, frustration, pain.
If Creed was alive, she wanted him to ride in and save the day. But he was only vampire. She should laugh, but now wasn’t the time. She wanted him safe more than anything and he couldn’t compete with Malachim and Barkle.
Malachim picked up the book. The sound it made was softer than crumpled paper. She looked closer as Barkle hovered over her, his stink washing across her body, leaving a funky, invisible stain. The book’s paper wasn’t paper, but resembled pale leather.
She couldn’t hold back her gag. Skin. Demon skin, and probably not from a willing one, or one that died peacefully. As she might find out, there was no tranquil death in the underworld.
Malachim shot her one last sinister smile as he found the page he wanted and started reading.
Sparks of agony fired through her. The sensation of being shredded from the inside out drowned her in pain.
She’d love to hold in her scream, to not give either of them the satisfaction, but she couldn’t. A roar ripped from deep in her chest. Plants sprung from all surfaces.
She envisioned a thick, sharpened root and speared Barkle in the arm. He jumped back, his face twisted in disbelief. An expression of smugness quickly took its place and she took great joy in watching the situation dawn on him. She was dying and he’d be left in a desperate state with no one but Malachim to satisfy him.
How she’d love to taunt him, but she had to tear her gaze away and cry to the ceiling. Her limbs strained against their constraints, her back arched, but she couldn’t move.
Malachim’s voice rose in crescendo. Slicing shards of power worked to cleave through her attachment to her demon side. She could get cut in two and it’d hurt less.
A bright flash blinded her. She squeezed her eyes shut as a string of fire arced over her to blast Malachim. She opened her eyes, her shout dying down as cool relief flooded her. Sleepiness dogged her as her body wanted to do nothing but shut down and repair itself.
She glanced at Malachim. He remained undamaged, but the book took flame. Barkle was spinning to face their attacker.
A blast of cold toppled Barkle next to her like a statue. Melody searched for the origin. Fyra flanked one side of the entrance and Bishop the other. Their hands were out as they lobbed fire and ice. They were the best superheroes Melody had ever seen.
Creed appeared between them. Her heart surged, he truly was alive, but she shouted, “No!”
Malachim snarled, a wet, guttural sound that preceded doom.
“He’s immune,” she called, but Fyra and Bishop didn’t slow. Fyra toasted the tomb. Melody lashed out a root and slapped the remains of the book into a cloud of ashes. Fyra just bought her time.
“You’re too late.” Malachim barked a laugh. “I only had a few words left, and I have a good memory.”
He started over. Exhaustion robbed her of strength. She ached inside and out, nothing was left to resist the spell.
Creed launched himself at Malachim.
She shook her head, that was all she had energy for before she passed out, but she fought to keep her gaze on the most important male in her life. If she was going to die, he was the last thing she wanted to see.
Creed landed a foot on Barkle and used him to push off and tackle Malachim. The demon only grunted back a step, but kept up the spell. Creed punched and kicked, but Malachim shook him off like a doll. Creed dropped to the floor, but not in a useless heap. He crouched, drew a gun, and thrust it into Malachim’s abdomen.
Several shots rang out as he unloaded the clip into the demon. Malachim stuttered over a few words and smacked Creed away. Creed went tumbling.
Melody blinked, her vision winking in and out. She sensed Quution and Stryke on her other side, their energy stirring the hair on her nape. Were they trying to contain or kill a thawing Barkle?
A scuffle jerked her attention back to Creed. Her body felt lighter, like it was going to float away, an out of body exp
erience, only in reverse.
Her power was leaving her. Her eyes lowered. She fought to lift them again.
“Quution!” Creed pointed to Melody. “Keep it inside of her.” He slid a giant knife from a holster at his side.
Malachim was reaching the end, the part where he was interrupted the first time.
“We’ve got this bastard, Q,” Fyra said. “And I’m gonna enjoy it after all those years of torment. You and Stryke save her.”
Quution appeared at her head, his hands flared out over her. “Now’s your chance, Melody. I can outline the energy of the spell. Between Stryke and I, we can rid you of this, and goodbye underworld.”
Her mouth worked. Did she want to keep it? It’d become a part of her in such a short period of time. It wasn’t until she’d become a hybrid that she finally accepted herself, yet they weren’t her crutch. They’d been an even bigger challenge to blending into life, to being accepted by those around her, and she’d done it. They were hers now.
Stryke stood at her feet, his hands outspread like his brother’s. They were holding her together.
Her lungs squeezed. The power was draining from her, coalescing to transport to where it was commanded to go next.
No.
“Don’t fuck with my Meladonna.” Creed leaped to Malachim, the knife swinging in an arc.
The last word was leaving Malachim’s lips as the last remnants of powers were loosened from her being.
No.
Her heart flailed, but shots of electricity flagged it to keep going. Quution. His expression was so grim.
“Quution,” she whispered.
He frowned down at her. “Save your energy and help us out, will ya?”
She would’ve smiled if she wasn’t perched on death’s door. One last look at Creed before she went. He sliced through Malachim’s neck.
Black blood flowed. The male roared, but Creed echoed his rage and hacked again. Malachim spun around, trying to dislodge Creed, to impale him with his horns, but Creed was too close. Malachim had wasted his advantage on the spell.
The blade was knocked out of Creed’s hand before it could sever the rest of the demon’s flesh. Malachim tried to bear hug Creed and crush him. But Creed grabbed onto the male’s horns instead and used them for leverage and he kicked Malachim’s torso one direction and yanked his head the other.
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